


Minor Heaven

by LaTessitrice



Category: Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Canon Related, F/M, Introspection, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-06
Updated: 2011-10-06
Packaged: 2017-10-24 08:58:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaTessitrice/pseuds/LaTessitrice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sequence of events culminating in Irina’s death causes Tanya to contemplate her past and her future.  Tanya is now the only single girl in the coven; when she begins a journey on her own, where will she end up?</p><div class="center">
<img/></div>
            </blockquote>





	Minor Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written after a comment Kyrene made on Twitter about Tanya being the only single girl left in Denali following the events of Breaking Dawn. Since she’s waited over a thousand years for her happy ending, I decided to give her it. I’m not one of those people who sees Tanya as a threat to Bella and Edward’s romance and I hope this story does her justice.
> 
> Thanks to Kyrene and Octoberland for their beta work.
> 
> I don’t own Twilight.

Another Cullen wedding.

My sister and I have travelled down from our home in Alaska to the serene verdancy of the Olympic peninsula to witness an event that we should have expected would come to pass. It was only a matter of time before the last single member of the Cullen clan found his mate.

We are here as eternal bachelorettes, but then we’re never ones to pass up a celebration.  None of us have ever bought into the somber view of our life that certain Cullens have – if you have forever, you might as well enjoy it.

This wedding is different to the ones we’ve been to previously, given the high number of humans attending.  Usually, our gatherings are small, with the only humans present being the officials overseeing the ceremony.  Today’s divergence is on account of the human bride.

We’ll valiantly ignore the persistent burn in our throats for the sake of our longstanding friendship with the good doctor.  After the events of the summer, we couldn’t turn down the invitation.  Plus, I have to sate my curiosity and meet the girl who has captured Edward Cullen’s heart.

The room is tastefully decorated and lusciously scented.  The warm candlelight flatters our skin, making the white less harsh.  Kate fusses with my curls, which are more copper than blonde in this light, and I wave her attention away.

“I can’t wait to see this dress,” she whispers.  “The way Alice talked about it it’s fit for a coronation.”

“The way Edward talks about her, he’d make her a queen if he could,” I reply.  Our conversation lapses as a waltz begins and the girl in question enters the room.

She is every inch the bride in her couture gown, designed for the benefit of her spouse.  Alice didn’t really do it justice in her enthusiastic descriptions over the phone.  Then again, I can admit that she didn’t have my full attention – clothes are not an interest of mine.  I’d rather be nude.

I have little vanity, because I have no need for it, and I have no qualms about calling other women beautiful.  I suspect that most of the time, Isabella is a pretty girl, but today I am seeing her through the eyes of the groom.  She outshines everyone in the room, human and inhuman alike.

The ceremony is blessedly short, although we stay in the expanse of the Cullens’ living room for the reception, so the burn isn’t going anywhere.  Since I made the decision to forego human blood, I have not slipped once, but I have also not been in a room with quite so many people.  It will be a challenge.  I’m fine with that; a life as long as mine would be dull without its challenges.

We line up to meet the new Mr. and Mrs. Cullen, and Bella is even more enchanting up close, with the flush of romance on her cheeks.  Edward can barely keep his hands away from her skin, and I have never seen him this happy.  The sullenest man I have ever encountered is radiating joy.

“Ah, Edward,” I say as I embrace him.  “I’ve missed you.”

He pulls away from me as quickly as he can without seeming rude.  I think he believes that I still harbor a strong desire for him – it’s vaguely amusing, given how briefly it bloomed and how long ago it faded.  I may be admiring his ass, but I’m not going to do anything about it.

“It’s been too long, Tanya.  You look well.”

“So do you.”  It’s true.  Love suits him.  Maybe now he’ll remove the stick from his ass, to use a particularly charming American phrase.

“Let me introduce you to my wife.”  I take Bella’s soft hand in mine.  She really is lovely up close, and I understand what Edward sees in her.

I can see the hint of doubt, jealousy and possessiveness in her eyes, and I restrain a smile.  If only she knew how deep his love for her cuts.  I was never her rival, even before she ever existed.  She was made for him, and he for her, and any fool observing the smitten glow he casts as he gazes at his human love can see this.  I’m certainly no fool.

Still, it’s hard to not let myself tease her.  That will come in good time, when she is one of us and perhaps does understand the un-shaking foundation his feelings are built upon.  For now, she sees only my façade, one of a beauty too dissimilar to hers and a nature too flirtatious for her to understand.  It is impossible for her not to compare herself to me and wonder at our differences, and wonder if  _he_  has wondered.

I know he never has.  I hold no bitterness over it, and wish them well.  Edward got the purity of love he was looking for, and would never have found with me.

“Welcome to the family, Bella.”  I’d like to hug her as I did Edward – she smells wonderful, like flowers in sunshine – but I sense that would be too forward for a first meeting.  I apologize for the incident over the summer, when we neglected to assist with their newborn problem, and then Kate and I make a joke about being paired up next.  With that, it’s time for us to move on; we’re going to dance and be merry, since this might be a Cullen wedding where we can actually have fun, in amongst the human guests.  I’m aware that the usual phrase is ‘eat, drink and be merry’, but either of the first two might put the dampeners on proceedings.

We encounter the other Cullens as we circle the room, greeting each of them in turn.  Emmett tries to hug us all at once, which doesn’t quite work but amuses a nearby knot of watching humans.  He sets about demolishing the buffet, happily pretending to glug beer, while we exchange polite conversation with Rosalie.

She will always be distant to us; she doesn’t understand how we can be accepting of what we are.  It’s understandable, given the way she was dragged into this life, and the things she feels she missed out on.  But you can’t regret not having something you never wanted.

We move on as Emmett loudly announces his intention to do something called The Electric Slide.

Jasper is in the garden, taking one of many frequent breaks to control his bloodlust.  The silver crescent-moon slivers crisscrossing his skin are eerie in the moonlight.

“It’s a shame they couldn’t provide us with our own buffet,” I joke as we keep him company.  “They could have set up a small menagerie out here to complement the food inside: beef, venison, hog – ”

“Hog.  Yeuch,” Kate interrupts, announcing her distaste.  It’s true that swine tends to be unpleasant.

We barely see Alice as she is too busy trying to ensure that the perfect wedding does not become anything less than perfect.  All we manage are brief greetings as she trots after one of the caterers.

Esme and Carlisle are, as ever, gracious hosts.

“We’re so glad you could make it,” Esme greets us after a round of hugs.  I don’t think I’ve ever hugged so many people in my life as I have today – and after a millennium, that’s saying something.

“I’m glad to see he’s happy,” I reply.  “You’ll come stay with us after Bella has…made the transition?”

“Certainly.”  It’s Carlisle that accepts the offer.  “We’ll need to leave Forks, and Alaska sounds like the perfect destination.”

It’s the least we can offer after our recent transgression, and Carlisle’s acceptance signifies that all is right between our clans again.

I am merry with a whirlwind of compliant men, although no one here interests me enough for more than one dance.  A couple of my partners take to it with great enthusiasm, and I can see the distrustful expressions of their wives from across the room.  They have me completely wrong, of course, but I am used to the assumptions.

After a thousand years in a sisterhood, I will not cross another woman.  I hold a reverence for relationships, despite the fact that I have enjoyed my freedom very much, and men with partners hold no interest for me.  Any man who breaks a vow – any vow, even one as simple as ‘I want to go steady’ – earns my contempt, not a place in my bed.

Besides, I have no interest in drama, and getting involved in other people’s relationships always leads to that.

We leave alone, heading back to Alaska that evening.  My mood is peculiar on the journey home, ruminating on my past and my future.

It’s been several months since I have taken a lover, and that is almost unheard of.  I haven’t felt the need to seek out sex, and the lack of that need unsettles me.  If I have a hobby, then mine is sex.  There’s nothing quite like the dance of seduction, the build-up of anticipation, and finally the surrender to pleasure.

I’ve heard Carlisle describe my sisters and I as succubae, and while it isn’t inherently an insult, the way he thinks of us is.  Succubae are demons, and there’s nothing demonic or wrong in what we do.  I love the doctor, but he’s very much stuck in the attitude that he was raised with, and fun has no place in that.  With my body, I can bring a man pleasure he never dared to dream of.  Why should I limit that pleasure to one man?  Why should I deny myself that pleasure?

It’s strange when modern women talk about the past.  They see it as a barbaric landscape where women were the chattel of men, mute and used as required.  As with everything about the past, this is too simplistic.  Sometimes it was true, but little is said of the women who walked the halls of power, using their wiles to get the men around them to dance to their tune.

I’ve seen attitudes change so often that I’ve long since decided they are worth no attention.  But even as human, in a rural land where Russia was a distant dream, my life as a woman was very much my own.  The women in my village had as much power as the men, it was just in different arenas.  We knew healing, and we had our mysteries – the secrets of birth, life, sex and death.  I wasn’t married because I chose not to be.  I hadn’t borne children because I chose not to.  My neighbours respected these choices, and time has not diminished the strength of these choices.

I didn’t leave a family behind when my second mother came for me.  They had all succumbed to a virulent illness that swept through the village, and my mother changed me and made me her first companion when those of us left behind struggled to survive.  My sisters joined in the years that followed, all of us from the same landscape.

I have never desired marriage.  I think it’s strange that the Cullens feel a need to observe such a ritual.  I don’t pine for my other half – I am complete in myself.  And yet…eternity is a long time to face alone.

I have my sisters, but despite a millennium in each others’ company, our ties are transitory.  We come together and move apart at intervals, and there is nothing to prevent any of us from leaving the others behind.

I don’t want a husband.  I don’t want a soul mate.  But I can admit that the thought of belonging with someone is tempting.  Would I miss the constant seduction and illusion required to entice human lovers to my bed?  I enjoy playing those games, but could I willingly give them up if I were to gain a companion?

When we are home, I try to return to my life, but like a garment stretched and worn by time, it no longer fits quite right.

***

Winter comes and with the New Year my life changes utterly.  I have lost one of my sisters and the other has found a companion.  I will never regret our decision to face the Volturi, but grief weighs heavily on me, and where I would usually share this burden with Kate, she has found someone else to carry her sorrow.

I am weary.  I have never felt this before, but it is deep in my bones.  I feel the need to say goodbye to Irina properly, and a sense of nostalgia compels me to do this in the place we began.  No sooner have we returned to Denali than I am leaving again.

I know my destination: Russia, the land of both my births, and the true purpose in my journey is indistinct.  I can only hope that I find it on the way.

I travel slowly, making my way across Alaska, then Canada by train, choosing the most scenic routes possible.  Airplanes are inventions to get people places more quickly, designed to reduce the wastage of time in travelling.  Time is not a concern of mine, and if I am travelling, I may as well have the chance to observe the beauty in the landscapes I pass through.

I go by boat from Greenland to Iceland, then from Iceland to Norway, and then back on the train.  I t would make more sense to cross the top of Scandinavia to get to Russia, but I have a pilgrimage I need to make first.

It is over a century since I visited Denmark, and the country is as lovely as I remember.  Copenhagen is covered by leaden skies, but it doesn’t diminish the city’s beauty; in fact, the green roofs and picturesque harbors are enhanced by the grey light.  There is a balance between old and new that all the ancient European cities have, with the two juxtaposing against each other, one trying not to smother the other.

The country’s most famous writer resonates with me now, all those stories with softly-sad endings drawing me here.

In our living room in Denali, my sisters and I watched many movies, and the saccharine Disney re-workings of fairy tales were among them.  I detest the way they subvert the old stories and make them close to worthless, but Irina, always the most romantic of us, loved them.  Just to annoy me, she would call me Ariel, even though the only similarity between us is our hair color.  Even then, mine is not like the mermaid’s sheet of scarlet at all, cascading behind her on wind and sea spray, but it was in our nature to tease each other.

I can’t understand the character of Ariel.  Perhaps it is because she is so young, and has an innocence I don’t think I ever did, even as a human.  She gives up her entire life in a fit of foolishness to be with a man she barely knows, and I can’t help feeling that the story ended before the misery the decision brought could set in.

Still, it isn’t Ariel I am here to visit.  It is the original mermaid, her sister with a sadder ending.

It’s night when I go to  _Den Lille Havfrue_ , perched as she is on a rock in Copenhagen harbor, forever gazing out at the sea she has been separated from.  The wind blowing off the water carries the bite of ice to it, but it does not bother me, and it ensures that we are alone.

She wasn’t here when I was last in the city, and she is smaller than I anticipated.  We sit out the night, side by side in our melancholy.

This mermaid made that same impetuous choice as the Disney coquette – to give up her life and habitat for an uncertain love.  It didn’t work out for her, and the only thing preventing the story being a tragedy was the chance of redemption offered to her at the end.

I have spoken to Carlisle many times about the potential existence of our souls.  Neither of us is sure, although Carlisle is optimistic.  It’s not something that weighs on my mind much – it is entirely possible that we don’t have them, but if we have forever on Earth, what need do we have for Heaven?

Tonight I ponder the mermaid’s choice: a hundred years of work in exchange for her soul.  Was that worth more than love in the end?  Inevitably, I dwell on the sister I have lost.  Suddenly it seems more important that I know whether we do have our souls.  Would I ever be offered a chance at redemption?

The next morning I send a postcard with her picture on to Kate, Garrett, Carmen and Eleazer.  This is another tradition we have, both because it’s a human ritual that amuses us and because it lets each other know where we are in the world.  Then I board a boat for Finland.

It is even longer since I have been here, and the land is still a sanctuary of lakes and forests.  I speak Finnish better than I do Danish.  I can also speak its unnatural derivative, Elvish, courtesy of a bet made with Kate.  We decided that whoever could learn Tolkien’s fictional tongue the quickest would be the one to make a play for Edward.

It wasn’t the waste of time it might have been, since I was very much in demand when I attended fan conventions.  I had the right amount of unearthliness to pass as an elf, in the right, scanty costume.  I always had fun with the men I met there.

Still, this close to home, I enjoy speaking Finnish.  The sounds it involves are closer to my mother tongue than English, and while I have no problem manipulating my tongue and palette to make the requisite sound for any language (or any other activity this might be necessary for), the familiarity brings a sense of comfort.  Even the air, carrying a fresh and cool breeze down from the Arctic, reminds me of my homeland and a kind of peace.

I move northwards, across a patchwork land of lakes and rural towns.  The deeper into the landscape I go, the scarcer humanity becomes.  Hunting is good, at least as a change from my diet in Alaska: lynx, wolverines and moose.

It is at a village in the heart of this tranquility that I encounter him.

It is clear when I move into the hamlet that death is among them.  A young family has just been torn apart, despite this country not having the large predators capable of doing this.  Superstitions are thriving, and I keep myself under cover.

I follow the trail, which is easy to find because of the abundance of near-invisible blood droplets left in my kin’s wake.  I am led past the clear depths of the lake to a cabin, nestled in the trees by the waterline.

He is crouched in a defensive position by the doorway as I approach, but he makes no move to either attack or flee.  The blazing crimson of his irises belies his new born status.

A spark of recognition flares between us, something deeper than belonging to the same species.  The air around is charged with expectation, and my body reacts the way it always does to anticipation, the way it hasn’t done in months.  It wants to  _dance_ again.

“You are like me,” he says, still frozen and undecided.  His skin is pallid but that’s not unusual for this land; neither is his height, or the dark blonde hair which is matted against his scalp.

“I am like you,” I agree, and it has more than one meaning.  We are the same species, but also, even after such a brief meeting, I can tell that this man is meant to be my companion.  The peace I thought I lost months ago has settled back into my bones.

We enter the cabin, which only has one room; it smells like burnt herbs and smoking fish.  “How did you end up like this?”

“I was fishing and a man came to the cabin.  I can only remember his red eyes, and then I burned.  When I woke up, I still burned.  I killed them, and it still burns.”  His words are pleading as the memory of his first feeds pass through.

“It won’t always be like this,” I promise, referring to the crippling thirst he feels.  I resist the urge to take his hand.  “I’m Tanya.”

“I’m Tuomas.”

It will not be easy, since he is a newborn.  He will be interested in little more than blood for a long time, and I have to try to keep him from feeding on humans.  Despite our instant, permanent bond, it’s a principal I can’t let go.

“We need to leave here,” I tell him.  “I will take you home.”

We leave the little cabin after he has bathed, heading due North towards Lapland.  I will take him back to Alaska, but the journey will not be easy.  The route we’ll use will be isolated, and longwinded, but it will keep us away from humans.

I steer us away from reindeer herds and the Sami people who tend to them.  The few stray reindeer are sufficient hunting for the pair of us.

Eventually we pass into the far north of Russia, although this is far too northerly to be my home.  For a moment I debate turning south, tracing a path to the long-gone village of my home.  I know that I hope that if I can find it, I will find a trace of Irina’s soul there too.  It’s a foolish dream, and I have a new task now.  My destination has changed; central to my compass is Tuomas.

In the far, far North we reach the Arctic Ocean, frozen over for the winter.  Tuomas is afraid of stepping out into that wilderness, still unsure of his limits, until I reassure him that we will survive this journey.  The cold is not that cold to us and certainly not fatal, and there will be food eventually.  For now, there is nearly endless night.

We’ve both seen the Northern Lights before, but out here in this vast, white wilderness, it is different, and not just because we are together.  The swirls of aquamarine in the sky spark matching flashes of color on our skin, over the ice and snow, and we cannot take our eyes off each other.

We walk for days and nights, the difference between the two negligible.  We cross the top of the world in a surreal fairytale, but towards the end Tuomas’ thirst for blood redoubles itself until he is nearly crippled with it.  When we scent the first polar bear, he is gone from my side in an instant, and feasting when I reach him.

Afterwards, he is ferocious, and we make love for the first time on a carpet of snow.  The act, too, is ferocious, with all of his strength and feral lust making this something frantic.  It’s been so long since I have not had to temper my own strength, and I can abandon myself to my lust.  Even so, it is still making love, and we rest for a while afterwards as the sky blazes in jade and cobalt above us.

I am unsure if my navigation will be true: I learned to use the sky as my map millennia ago, but the stars have changed in that time.  To say I’m pleased when we reach what is clearly recognizable as Canada is an understatement – I have started to grow tired of this endless peace.  I am ready for company and fun again.

This is the hardest part of the journey.  Game is plentiful and I encourage Tuomas to gorge himself, but we pass close to civilization and his limited control is tested.  My strength would be no match for his, but I’ve talked to him over the weeks we have walked, telling him about both of my lives, about what he has become, what I hope he will be.  He wants to live as I do, but that decision is easily overridden by his bloodlust.

He feeds whenever we encounter an animal worth catching, though he complains that he can feel the blood sloshing round inside him, but I remind him it’s a good thing because he’ll be less tempted.

I test his English to keep him occupied.  He already speaks some, and it is inflected with an American accent because he has learned it all through movies and television.  The rest, he is learning fast, and he tests the capacity of his new memory, delighting in his perfect recall.  He tells me about what little he can remember of his previous life.  It is a simple story, of a mother and father and a quiet life.

We make it to Denali with no mishaps.  I’m proud of him, and reward him with a tumble in the forest.  It ends up lasting hours, and we arrive at the house in a tangle of ripped clothes.  Kate is taken aback by my guest, and one glance is enough to tell her what has occurred, and what kind of bond lies between Tuomas and I.

“It’s very nice to make your acquaintance,” she purrs at him.  “Why don’t we get you out of what’s left of those clothes?”  I see how it’s going to be – though she’ll never act on it, she’ll happily flirt with him, just like I did with Edward.  It’s her own way of showing her approval.

When he was in the bathroom, I recount the last few weeks to her.

“Do we finally get to send wedding invitations of our own to the Cullens?” she asks, though she already knows the answer.

“Only if they are for you and Garrett.”  Marriage is still something I’m uninterested in.

My postcard from Copenhagen has arrived in the interim.  The mermaid is pinned to the wall, staring mournfully out at her lost home.  I still feel that resonance with her.  What of my soul?  But I know that, for now, if I don’t have one, I’m content without it.

**Author's Note:**

> I visited Copenhagen in October 2009. You can view pictures, including photos of Den Lille Havfrue on my Photobucket [here](http://s792.photobucket.com/albums/yy204/la_tessitore/Minor%20Heaven/). You can also read the original ‘Little Mermaid’ [here](http://www.fairytalescollection.com/hans_christian_anderson/The_Little_Mermaid.htm). It was written by Hans Christian Andersen and it’s one of the most poignant stories ever, a million miles away from the Disney version (much as a love the Disney version. No, really. It’s my favourite film).


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